Lessons in Loss
by AB115
Summary: She forgets, sometimes – often, really – that he is down a parent, too. That he has one person behind him where there should be two.


She forgets, sometimes – often, really – that he is down a parent, too. That he has one person behind him where there should be two, that he doesn't have that male figure in his life.

She can't decide which is worse; to have a loving, wonderful mother like hers who was suddenly and harshly taken away, or to have nobody at all.

Ah, but that's one of life's great mysteries, is it not? Is it better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all?

She sighs deeply, turning to face him. He's still asleep, and the soft morning light creeping through the window along his sleep-slackened face makes him seem younger, more vulnerable.

She wonders what it was like for him growing up. Did he ache for a father in the way that she aches for her mother? Was it duller, or deeper, or easier? He claims he can't miss what he never had, but she knows that's not true. Of course you can miss what you never had. You can yearn for it, reach for it, hope upon hope for it.

She wonders how many Father's Days he had to sit through before this, gritting his teeth, ignoring the emptiness where a dad should be. Passing by Number One Dad mugs, listening to friends call up their fathers, wondering what that would be like.

She doesn't have to wonder so much about his Father's Day experiences over the last twenty years. Being a father, having a daughter as lovely, as intelligent as Alexis, must have turned the day around. From deep longing to warmth and light and love.

He stirs and his eyes open slowly, eventually focusing on her. "Hey," he whispers, his voice still rough with sleep.

She smiles softly at him. "Hey, sleepyhead." She reaches out and runs her hand along his cheek, then brushes the stray hair off his face. His eyes close again briefly, and it's clear he's struggling to stay awake. "It's still early," she whispers. "You don't have to be up yet. Go back to sleep."

"Can't," he mumbles back, forcing his eyes open again.

"Can't?"

"You're thinking too hard. Can't go back to sleep knowing that." His voice is still raspy, such a quiet, deep tone, that she finds her eyes closing, letting the warmth of his words wrap around her.

"I'm not. Go back to sleep." She's still whispering, even though it's not like there's anyone else to wake up. The loft is empty. But she's hoping that keeping her voice low will help him fall back asleep sooner.

"Liar," he huffs out as he rolls onto his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. She mirrors his position, stares up, too.

"Okay. I was thinking." She pauses. "About you."

He chuckles at that. "About me," he repeats, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "That's good to know, seeing as how you're in my bed and all. Hate to have you thinking about someone else."

He's going for levity, giving her an out as always. "Yes. Well. I was thinking about you. And today."

"Me and today?"

"You and Father's Day. Growing up. What it might have been like for you." Her voice is still so quiet, so small in the big room.

He sighs deeply. A soft "oh" is his only response.

"Was it? Difficult, I mean. For you." She's not sure why she is having such a hard time forming complete sentences. She doesn't want to push him, but she wants to be what he has always been for her: someone to lean on, to open up to, to be in it with him.

"No. Not really. I've told you. Can't miss what I never had." It sounds like he's sighing the whole sentence, like he's forcing exasperation out of his voice.

"That's not true. I miss things I never had. Opportunities that passed by, dreams and thoughts and ideals that I reached out for but never got."

He sits up suddenly, swings his legs out of bed. He runs a hand through his hair before he pushes off and stands. "It's fine. I have Alexis. So. I'm going to shower, get ready. She'll be here soon." And with that, he walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him before she even has the chance to sit up.

She's completely blown away by his reaction. He's never one to close her out, always so open, so giving, trying to draw her out. He never closes doors in her face, metaphorically or otherwise.

She sits up, swings her legs to the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. When she does this to him, tries to shut him out, he pushes, just a little, just enough, to get her to open up to him, to release some of the tight hold she keeps on her heart. Maybe she needs to do the same for him.

Not maybe. Definitely. It's her turn to push.

She slides one of his t-shirts over her head, steps into a pair of boxers, and then heads to the bathroom door. She turns the handle, relieved to find it's unlocked. She pushes the door open slowly, then looks around. The shower is running. She can make his form out through the blurred doors. He isn't moving, just standing under the spray.

"Castle," she calls out to him, her voice louder than it had been all morning. He looks up at her, startled.

"Kate…" he begins, clearly unsure of the best way to get her to drop this line of questioning.

She walks over to the shower, pulls the door open, sheds her clothes and steps in. She avoids making contact with him, knows how words and touch can combine to overwhelm. So she takes a deep breath and starts. "No, Castle. You don't get to shut me out. You wouldn't let me do this to you. Please. Just talk to me."

He sighs, runs his hand through his hair again. "It's nothing. Seriously, Kate. Nothing."

"It's not nothing," she responds, her voice raising slightly. She's getting frustrated with him, so she tries to breathe through it. Is this what he feels like every time she clams up?

"It's nothing like you. Like what happened to you. It's nothing." Ah, there it is. He feels guilty for missing what he never had in the face of Kate's devastating lost. Doesn't want sympathy from her.

She reaches up to touch his cheek, then pushes up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Don't do that," she murmurs. "It's not the same. That's true. But it's not nothing. Not nothing." She presses her lips to his jaw, sweet, soft kisses across, then down his neck. "Never nothing," she whispers into his shoulder, pressing another kiss there.

He finally gives in, unable to resist her. He wraps his arms around her waist, dips down to take from her lips, a deep, dark kiss. "You're here," he whispers into her mouth. "Alexis is here," he adds, punctuates with a kiss. "I don't need anything else. Anyone else. I'm missing nothing." He nudges her cheek with his nose, inhales her scent, before heading back to her lips.

She sighs, feeling slightly exasperated herself. She lets him take from her, kiss her, move his hands up and down her back. But then she backs away, out of his arms. "Is this what it's like for you?"

He blinks at her, clearly confused. "For me? What?"

"When I, um, do this. Shut you out. Is this how it feels to be on the other side?"

He huffs out a laugh. "Sorry," he mumbles, reaching out and bringing her back against him.

She lets him, lets him move past kissing, towards much more, lets him give and take, love and hurt, with her, in her, everywhere around her.

The next morning, she stares at him again. She promises herself that she'll work harder to be open to him, to not put him through so much of what she briefly experienced. It hurt to feel pushed out, shoved aside, unwanted. She pushes up on her elbow, leans over to press kisses along his hairline.

"I promise," she whispers into the bedroom air, settling in closer to him. "I do."


End file.
